Chapter 19

  

Joe slept soundly, his head near mine. I could hear his breathing. Beside my side of the bed on the floor, Charlie breathed in perfect sync with Joe.

I eased out of the bed, trying to avoid the sleeping dog. I tried to keep my squeaking stairs from waking anyone, but Charlie hears everything and soon was padding down behind me.

A cup of tea later, I lit a fire and sat, wrapped in a heavy fake fur throw, trying to think my way through what had kept me awake.

Joe.

A great lover, an imaginative cook, and a thoughtful friend. What more could I want? Yet something nagged at me. Not about Joe—about me. My history with men was not promising. Every time I had gotten close to the possibility of a relationship, I’d screwed things up. My therapist back in Ohio suggested I was afraid of being deserted by men, so I always contrived to dump them first.

In my first semester of graduate school in New York, I’d fallen in love with an assistant professor who taught one of my courses. Unlike some of my current faculty, he was conscientious—he wouldn’t date me while I was his student. The attraction was intense but we played by the rules.

The day of his last class we met at a hotel bar near campus. Fifteen minutes later we were in a room upstairs. We undressed each other in record time. The sex was not great, but the relief was tremendous. And, in the weeks that followed, the sex got better. I loved and admired him although I never felt the deep passion I expected to characterize my first adult love affair.

We got engaged the day before my mother crashed into a tree and killed herself.

I went home to Ohio and switched to a graduate program there to be near my grieving father. My fiancé came to visit several times; he was always kind and understanding. But, as time passed, I returned his kindness with complaints about his unwillingness to leave a very good position and move to Ohio. Six months later he called to say he thought we should start seeing other people. I didn’t blame him. I blamed me. My therapist suggested that, sooner or later, I probably would have found some reason to push him away, and I agreed with her.

The attorney I went to bed with the following year was a different matter. He was fifteen years older than I, rich and self-centered. One night he made me so angry I threw a lamp at his head and left him sitting on the floor of his enormous bedroom nursing a significant cut on his forehead. After that, I never saw him again.

Since taking the job at Mountain State, I’d tried two relationships, one with a professor in biology and another with a man who wanted to be my stockbroker, but I ended both. I don’t see a therapist anymore but I was sure my old friend in Ohio could have provided some sage insights into why I had so much trouble bonding with men. Even though I felt warm and safe with Joe, I felt surer of his feelings for me than of mine for him.

“What’s the matter with me?” I said out loud to Charlie. The dog got up and put his head in my lap. “This is the first man I have been able to really talk to. We trust each other. Why am I afraid of messing up with the one guy who could be the right guy?”

  

Inevitably morning came and, even though everyone else had left for winter break, the dean’s office would remain open until the day before Christmas. Nell was the only one in the outer office when I arrived at school. She and I had planned to catch up on all the work we had neglected during the semester.

For the first time since she and I had started working together, Nell actually looked relaxed and happy to see me. “Good morning Red,” she said, smoothing the curls that frame her face, “there are messages on your desk. You might want to start with Mr. Howard who wants to reschedule the meeting you missed.”

Benjamin Howard was our primary benefactor. I had cancelled our original meeting to go to Celeste’s hospital room. He had been gracious at the time, according to Nell, but today his secretary had said this week before Christmas would be the last opportunity for a meeting until late spring. He had given millions to journalism schools all over the country, but Mountain State seemed to be his favorite. I returned the call and was put through to Ben immediately.

“I was wondering if we could have dinner tonight,” he began.

I was surprised. I had thought lunch would be more convenient for both of us. “I know it’s short notice, Dr. Solaris—may I call you Meredith? But my schedule is packed this week and I leave on Friday.”

“I could meet for dinner. Thank you.”

“Splendid. I hope you like Japanese food. If so, we can meet at seven at Kyoto’s on Fourth Street. Would that be all right?”

“That would be fine,” I heard myself say, thinking about the pot roast Joe had promised to make for us tonight. After I hung up, I wondered why I felt nervous. I’d met Ben Howard twice at school parties hosted by Henry. I recalled Ben as a big man with a ready laugh and a good sense of humor. He was tall and self-confident. His face was tan, his hands were strong and brown from sun. His suits were beautifully tailored. I found him appealing. Maybe that was why I felt uneasy about calling Joe to say I wouldn’t join him for dinner.

“Of course I understand,” Joe said. “Ben Howard’s your biggest benefactor. You blew him off to see your alcoholic student. I hope you persuade him to give the school another big gift so the university will know what a sensational fundraiser you are. I’ll meet you at your house later if you like.”

Of course I liked. Intelligent, self-confident Joe. Why had I worried?

Another message was from a Dr. Alistair Shaw, a name that was familiar but I couldn’t quite place it. Shaw answered on the second ring.

“I wanted to express my deepest sorrow over the loss of Henry Brooks, Dean Solaris.”

“Thank you, Dr. Shaw. I appreciate the call. So will the faculty.”

“I was also hoping you could help me with another matter but I wanted to wait a respectful time before asking.”

“I’d be happy to accommodate you if I can,” I replied, now remembering that Alistair Shaw was a distinguished retired professor who had taught at the top journalism schools in the country and had written several books, three of which faced me in Henry’s bookcase across from my desk.

“Henry sent me some pages written, I think, by one of your faculty although Henry did not provide the author’s name. He asked me to review the pages and give him an opinion as to their pedagogic value to the journalism profession.”

“I see. Is there a problem?”

“Well, Dr. Solaris, it appears there is. About half of what I read, which I presumed to be part of a larger work, was—how shall I say this—directly taken from a book I have been writing over the past two years.” Shaw paused. His voice sounded old. “Without any attribution to me, I fear.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Indeed. I don’t know who wrote the document Henry sent me, but I do recall reading that same material from my book at a symposium last summer. Henry and several of your faculty attended and I handed out copies of what I presented.”

“And you believe someone on our faculty plagiarized your writing in his or her work?”

Students are not the only sinners and Henry’s little note in the suitcase now made sense.

“I don’t know with any certainty that the person is on your faculty, Dr. Solaris, but Henry returned the pages to me with a note across the first page that read: ‘Don’t worry, Al. I’ll put a stop to this. My apologies, Henry.’”

“I’m sure he was devastated by this discovery,” I said, trying to cover my own anger with sympathy for the aging Alistair Shaw who, I thought, must have been close to ninety.

“Yes, well, Henry did try to reach me by phone before he sent this. I guess to prepare me for it. But I was in the hospital at the time and didn’t open the packet until I came home. By that time, Henry was dead.”

“I hope you’re all right now.”

“Oh, I’m fine, Dr. Solaris. But I would be most grateful if you could follow up on this. It’s so distressing to think a colleague would copy my work and not give attribution. I would, you know, be happy to allow for the quote even though it runs to several pages of my book—if the writer had just asked.”

I promised Shaw I would investigate.

  

Fortunately, the afternoon was quieter. Nell and I got through a small mountain of forms and paper procedures.

“Nell, do you know who on the faculty is currently writing a book?”

Nell looked up, again that small glimmer of contempt in her eyes. “Who isn’t?” she said. “I’m aware of at least three of them because they keep pestering my student assistants to make copies and mail out stuff.”

“Who are they?”

Nell squinted her eyes. “Hmm. Phyllis Baker, Edwin Cartwell, George Weinstein. Weinstein’s the worst of all. Treats my staff as if they were here to work exclusively for him. Oh, and Dr. Worthington sent something out yesterday, but he tends to take care of his own copying and mailing.”

“How about Simon?”

Nell blew out her lower lip. “That man hasn’t written anything for fifteen years.”

So, four books. When would I have time to examine four books? Maybe Nell could help me with a shortcut.

“Do you remember sending out any of the manuscripts or sections of manuscripts to Dr. Alistair Shaw?” She did.

“Did you make a copy of what you sent?” She did not. The envelope was sealed when Henry gave it to her. No point in telling her more. It would just upset her and, even though Nell is discreet, I couldn’t risk faculty plagiarism becoming staff gossip.

“Please call Alistair Shaw back and ask him to send me the document Dean Henry mailed to him last month. I’m going home to change for my dinner with Ben Howard. ”

“Have a good time,” said Nell with an unusually merry smile. “Now there’s a man I really like.”

“The man or his money, Nell?”

“Nothing wrong with a man being rich and charming,” she said. “You behave yourself, hear? That man has a way about him.”

Well, how about that. Our very formal Nell felt comfortable enough to tease me. Maybe I was making progress.

  

Kyoto is dark and elegant. The center is devoted to a large dining room, with candles lighting the soft beige tablecloths. Along three sides are booths, several with pillows and tatami mats and low tables. I hoped Howard hadn’t reserved one of those booths. I was wearing my good red suit and my skirt was too tight to sit on the floor.

“Mr. Howard is waiting for you,” said the slender Asian man who led me to the back of the restaurant to a set of paneled Shoji doors. I entered a small room with a round table and a round sofa curving behind the table. Thank God, no floor pillows. Ben Howard was standing beside the table. He shook my hand. A firm, warm grip. “Delighted to see you,” he said.

“Mr. Howard, thank you. This looks wonderful.”

“Please call me Ben. I’d like to call you Meredith. Or do you prefer Red? Wonderful nickname for you.”

“Red is the name my father gave me,” I said sliding onto the sofa behind the table.

His knee brushed mine as he seated himself beside me. “I trust you won’t think of me as your father,” he said smiling. The sofa was curved just enough so we could see into each other’s face. But small enough that our knees touched.

He had ordered an expensive sake. “I hope you like this. I can order some French wine if you prefer.” I love sake. Usually hot. But this one was elegant and served cool.

The food was delicious and the conversation comfortable. I liked Ben immediately. Over small dumplings stuffed with pork, he told me about his college and how he had first started his business. Over a salad of cold cooked spinach dressed in a sesame sauce, I told him about my graduate education and how Henry had promoted me to his assistant. Over sashimi and a delicate scallop dish, we talked about the special vacations we’d each taken. My favorite was to the French side of St. Martin’s in the Caribbean.

As we finished the scallops, the conversation turned to the school. “I’m thinking about endowing a chair in Henry’s name,” Ben said.

“That’s very generous, Ben. Henry would have been honored.”

“Well, Henry was a very good dean in my opinion and I’d like to do something that will keep his memory fresh in the minds of your sometimes difficult faculty.” He smiled. “Perhaps, if you don’t become the permanent dean, you could become the first occupant of the Henry Brooks Chair in Journalism.”

“Oh, I doubt I’ll ever be a dean permanently,” I said.

“You are much too beautiful to be that modest.”

I blushed but fortunately the waiter opened the shoji paneled door to serve tea so I didn’t have to reply.

When the waiter left, I felt Ben’s hand on my knee, “I’d like to get to know you better, Red,” he said. His voice had changed to low and intimate. I was acutely aware of his smooth tanned face. A few wrinkles surrounded dark brown eyes. I shifted away slightly but his fingers remained on my knee. Gentle but warm.

“I hope we can become friends,” I said, inching further away.

“I would like us to be more than friends,” he said, shifting closer on the couch. I could feel his breath close to my face and his hand was once more on my knee.

“I’m involved with someone,” I said. I could feel the heat coming off his body.

“So am I,” he said. “I’ve been married for thirty-six years.”

I moved to the end of the couch.

“Red,” he said, smiling and leaning his elbows on the table. “I have a condo on the beach in Mexico just south of Cancun. It’s not St. Martin’s but I have a jet that can get us there in four hours and, after a day or so, back in plenty of time for you to spend Christmas with whoever he is.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” I said, starting to rise from the couch.

“I’m sorry, too,” he said, leaning back into the couch. “I’d love to see you in a bikini.” And out of one, no doubt. His voice was still low and sensual without a trace of annoyance.

“I’m sorry Mr. Howard. If this means your offer of a chair in journalism is off, I understand. But I can’t be more than your friend.”

“Oh, my dear Red. Of course the journalism chair offer is still good. I’m not going to punish you for turning me down. I never negotiate with women I want to sleep with.”

I was sure he didn’t.

He got up from the couch and took my hand in both of his and raised it to his lips.

I could still feel the heat of him. My reaction was Joe’s fault. He had awakened the fire in me, and my unavoidable response to a man’s mouth on the palm of my hand.

For that moment I was tempted to give in to Ben Howard, married or not. Joe or not.

“Friends?” he said, smiling.

“Friends,” I said, “and thank you for dinner.”

“The pleasure was mine, Dr. Solaris.” He returned to my hand and his lips were hot against my palm. Once again, it produced the desired effect and he knew it. “My office will call you about the chair in journalism. Have a Merry Christmas with your man. I hope he’s good to you.”

  

Oh, he’s good to me, my Joe. That’s the sentence I repeated to myself all the way home, trying not to wonder what Ben’s Mexican condo would look like and how Ben’s strong brown hands would feel on my suntanned body. Stop it, I said to myself. Joe Morgan is the best thing that ever happened to you. Slut.

Whoever said academic deans lived lives of contemplation and scholarship? What naive observer sees us only as elderly, distinguished men and women who commune daily with brilliant faculty and spend evenings at concerts and fund-raisers? Anyone knows a proper academic dean was not supposed to resemble a sweaty redhead driving home on a snowy night with her hands gripping the wheel, tears in her eyes and too much moisture between her legs.

Damn it, Joe. Be there watching television even though you knew I was dining with another man. Be there even if you’re supposed to be out investigating a lead in Henry’s murder. Be there even though you have good reason not to be there.

I opened my front door and heard the sound of television and the unmistakable cadence of a sports announcer. Joe was half asleep on the couch, dressed in sweatpants and an old gray t-shirt that was too small and thus stretched across the muscles of his remarkable chest. His beautiful green eyes opened and looked up at me.

“You look a mite flushed, my dear. I must say pink cheeks suit you.” His voice was low and lazy. “Everything go all right?”

I collapsed on the couch and told him everything. Everything except the kisses on my hands and my sexual thoughts driving home.

Joe’s powers of observation are acute. “I think this Howard guy turned you on a little,” he said, smiling. I blushed. He reached over and started unbuttoning my jacket.

“I was flattered, I admit,” I said, still blushing.

“Well, I’ll try not to deck him until after he’s given you the chair in journalism. Especially since, whatever feelings he inspired, you were sensible enough to bring home to Papa.”

And then, right there on the couch and in front of my dog, this incredibly handsome cop gave me exactly what I wanted and more than I deserved.